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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29133099">small words</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandpepper/pseuds/bloodandpepper'>bloodandpepper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>new paths to eden [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Assassin's Creed - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Altaïr POV, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff In The End, Injury, M/M, Malik POV, angst in the beginning, badass Malik, stupid love confessions, yay i wrote fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:53:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,306</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29133099</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandpepper/pseuds/bloodandpepper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Altaïr cursed that the night was moonless and the sky overcast with clouds hanging low and dark, for the faint column of smoke that rose to the east above the skyline was barely visible, but there.<br/>Ahmed stood breathless, eyes fixated on the horizon to the very same point. ‘We weren’t their target. They went for our base…’<br/>‘The bureau.’ Hakim whispered.<br/>These two, little words sank down to the marrow of Altaïr’s bones, where they settled heavy as lead, all the while his mind screamed another word, another name, in tune with his thrumming heart, until it made it past his lips, unchecked.<br/>‘Malik.’</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>new paths to eden [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154309</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. names</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Have you ever wondered,  if the bureau ever lost its cover because of all the half-assed assassins who weren't able to do their jobs and Altaïr had to clean up after them?<br/>No?<br/>Well, I have.</p><p>(Maybe I should start a series named 'Miss Pepper's collection of lockdown drabbles')</p><p> </p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘You!’</em>
</p><p>Funny how much contempt one, single word was able to contain.</p><p>‘What in the Prophet’s name are <em>you</em> doing here?’</p><p>Again that word as a curse, an ill-omen. Altaïr smiled and slid down the beam he’d been perched upon to land next to the other, dusting off his robes in nonchalance, mustering him from under the brim of his hood.</p><p>‘I’ve been watching the two of you stumble across the city for days. It made my own mission so much easier, because every time the guards were screaming ‘assassin!’ they usually chased after <em>you</em>.’</p><p>Now the little word had gained another quality and it wasn’t lost on the man still glaring at him in thinly veiled animosity. Back in what felt like ages, centuries, ago, Malik had jokingly named him ‘pig-head-Hakim’ for his wide nose and tiny eyes. He’d grown out of those features a bit by now, but it didn’t change the fact that his physique was more befitting that of a warrior than that of an assassin.</p><p>‘Bastard,’ came the reply through gnashed teeth, and Altaïr felt his smile widen out of sheer pettiness. The other bent down in order to retrieve the throwing knife that protruded from his mark’s throat and put the soiled blade back into its sheath without further ado.</p><p>‘What really piqued my interest though, was our brother’s little side-quest that involved me at some point,’ Altaïr continued and watched the third assassin stiffen. Hakim’s head snapped around as if slapped.</p><p>‘Ahmed?’</p><p>Right, that was the other’s name, now Altaïr remembered: A boy about seven years their junior, and by the look of it, freshly promoted to the rank of journeyman. He recalled his vivid green eyes and a face full of newly grown stubble.</p><p>He squirmed under their combined gazes and hurried to explain himself. ‘I lost my cover, Hakim. Some of them saw my face and it would’ve been too risky to go after my targets on my own. You were off scouting and, well, I ran across <em>him</em>.’</p><p>Ah. Now the nasty little word was back. Changed in grammar, but unmistakably the same, vile thing.</p><p>Hakim groaned in foreboding. ‘And you asked <em>him</em>, to fulfill the job originally meant for you.’</p><p>‘I’d been out of options! And he’s one of our own, one of our brothers!’</p><p>‘He’s a <em>traitor</em>.’</p><p>Here came the big words. Those with meaning, with impact - words beyond the mere performance of how they were uttered.</p><p>‘He’s still the Eagle of Masyaf, Hakim.’</p><p>His smile grew lopsided, as Altaïr listened to them squabble about him as if he wasn’t present at all.</p><p>‘For all I care, he could be the Crocodile of Alexandria!’</p><p>‘My, my, that’s awfully creative coming from you,’ Altaïr had to interject without engaging in their accusations. They’d already painted that picture of him, and they did so not without reason.</p><p>‘Slithering snake!’ A fist grabbed him by the collar, and Hakim dragged him closer to hiss into his face directly. ‘I pray to Allah that, one day, I will see that arrogance wiped from your pretty face to be replaced by the despair you deserve.’ Then the hold slackened and the other turned on his heel.</p><p>‘Quiet, Hakim! Words like that will only attract the Sheitan!’ Ahmed seemed to be the religious one here – and the one for seeking compromise.</p><p>‘And I hope they will,’ the other spat, ‘For <em>he</em> is one like him! One incarnate devil!’</p><p>Altaïr’s little smile stayed frozen in place out of sheer habit. He was deserving of many fates, and none of them well-meaning, but being confronted with his fellow brother’s vitriol began to wear down on him. He wasn’t here to rile them up, but his own bitterness rubbed off on them apparently, fueling the resentment they already held for him.</p><p>‘Allow me one question, though, devil or not, for I followed you out of curiosity, not ill intent,’ he asked, halting their steps with his inquiry.</p><p>‘Speak.’ Hakim was through with his big words, settling for the smaller ones again. Maybe he had tired of that infuriating conversation as much as Altaïr had.</p><p>Gesturing to the few bodies on the ground, Altaïr redirected their attention to the task just fulfilled. ‘Your mark is dead, true. But where is the counterstrike? A man of this rank should have an entourage, guards to watch out for him. A handful of bodyguards are hardly worth your time. No blearing alarm, no reinforcements rushing in? Why is it so silent?’</p><p>‘He’s right, Hakim, something seems to be off.’</p><p>‘But, we’ve identified the mark, cleared the place off all archers beforehand, we’ve seen this through well-planned…’</p><p>Altaïr had seen many assassinations played out in his life, but this one went too smoothly, too effortless.</p><p>‘It seems someone wanted you to kill off that guy and provided you with as little opposition as possible without rousing your suspicion immediately...’</p><p>Hakim’s face turned to stone form one moment to the next, turning towards his companion. ‘Ahmed. Have you eliminated all people who were able to see your face?’</p><p>Now it was time for the youngest in their round to freeze in mid-motion, and Altaïr could already feel dread settling in his guts in premonition. </p><p>‘I…I think so?’</p><p>Hakim exploded like a volcano that had been asleep for a thousand years. ‘You think so?! You THINK? How about knowing? Knowing for sure?! If someone lived to tell of your identity, and tracked our steps, this could be a trap!’</p><p>Altaïr’s outward serenity belied his inner turmoil, as the puzzle pieces of that botched assassination lined up in his mind to form a whole picture he didn’t like one, tiny bit.</p><p>‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I fear your cover is already blown and your mark must have been a stooge, maybe even a willing sacrifice. This is a trap, Hakim, but not for you, not for us.’</p><p>Ahmed’s face had turned ashen in silent terror in the meantime. ‘Then for whom?’</p><p>Recognition shone in Hakim’s eyes once their gaze met and they jumped up the ladders and beams alongside each other, rushing for the rooftops with billowing robes, Ahmed clambering one step behind them, shouting their names in vain, unanswered.</p><p>Altaïr cursed that the night was moonless and the sky overcast with clouds hanging low and dark, for the faint column of smoke that rose to the east above the skyline was barely visible, but <em>there</em>.</p><p>Ahmed stood breathless, eyes fixated on the horizon to the very same point. ‘We weren’t their target. They went for our base…’</p><p>‘The bureau.’ Hakim whispered. </p><p>These two, little words sank down to the marrow of Altaïr’s bones, where they settled heavy as lead, all the while his mind screamed another word, another name in tune with his thrumming heart, until it made it past his lips, unchecked.</p><p> </p><p>‘Malik!’</p><p> </p><p>Such a little word, such a short name, yet it held all what was dear to him in just two syllables. He felt Hakim’s eyes in the back of his head, as he leapt into a mad race across the tiles and archways, never losing his aim out of sight. His brothers’ steps followed him through the night, never faltering and a part of his soul was glad that he wasn’t alone in this.</p><p>A hail of arrows greeted them once they neared the bureau, and Altaïr ducked below a balcony before a well-aimed throw of his knife ended one archer’s life, while another fell prey to Ahmed’s short sword with a sharp cry.</p><p>‘Of course they are expecting us. This is going to get bloody,’ Hakim said, but hurried on with a steadfast determination Altaïr couldn't help but admire. He and Hakim had never been close, had always been rivals, and what had happened at the Temple only served to set them apart further, but right now, they were brothers in arms in more than the word implied.</p><p>Black smoke was wafting form the bureau’s roof entrance, obscuring the view when they finally neared their destination, the wooden gate ablaze in flames. Altaïr was almost glad for the squad of Templars that greeted them, for they distracted him form the eerie silence that came from below. There was no reason for stealth, no use for a subtle approach, so Altaïr leaped at them with the ferocity of a wild beast, short blade drawn, slashing and hacking his rising fear and desperation away until bodies littered the roof and the silence returned tenfold.</p><p>All the while his mind screamed the name that still, after all, meant the world to him in a voiceless crescendo, ushering him towards the burning ledge. Before he was able to clamber down into the atrium, a hand to his shoulder stilled his descent.</p><p>Hakim’s face was covered in blood, his mouth a thin, tightly pressed line, in his eyes a direness Altaïr could wholeheartedly understand.</p><p>‘I’m sorry for my words, brother,’ he pressed between clenched teeth.</p><p>Altaïr asked himself, if he meant his small words, or his big ones, but before he had time to contemplate this further, the other spoke up again.</p><p>‘I’ve wished the devil upon you, and now I’m floored because the Sheitan deigned to fulfill what I’ve asked of him so foolishly. Please believe me when I say that I never wish to see such despair on your face again, Altaïr.’ The press to his shoulder intensified for a moment to underline the severity of his words, before he continued. ‘We’ll find him.’</p><p>It was an unspoken understanding of who ‘him’ was meant to be and Altaïr felt the honest smile of thankfulness tug at the corners of his mouth.</p><p>It was Ahmed who jumped into the smoke-filled atrium first, stepping over more corpses and Altaïr followed, blade at the ready, trying to make out the tell-tale black mantle and prayed to the Prophet to not spot it among the dead.</p><p>The fire had already consumed large parts of the office, but strangely enough the map still lying on the front desk had remained unharmed except for a few singed spots. Altaïr wasn’t able to name what possessed him to roll it up and stow it away behind the belt at the small of his back – he simply attributed it to his nerves running high, in search for an outlet.</p><p>Smoke filled his lungs, and he pulled the collar of his hood over mouth and nose as he hurried on, his companions in tow.</p><p>He braced for the worst when he kicked the door to the dining room open - and had the fraction of a second to dodge a knife that came flying at him, nicking the skin at his temple before it bit into the doorframe to his left.</p><p>‘<em>You</em>.’</p><p>By now Altaïr should’ve grown used to this small word being hurled at him with such gusto, but that fact flew right over his head due to the elation that flooded his senses upon seeing the familiar figure standing coughing at the far end of the room, arm still extended in mid-air after his toss.</p><p>‘Fucking finally! I wasn’t sure how long I would’ve been able to hold position for you oafs to return from your messed up mission! And in case you’re wondering: Yes, we caught wind of the raid and prepared.’ Malik wiped sweat and blood off his forehead, where two gashes cut into his skin, before he gestured to the trapdoor behind him. ‘Now get lost, and head for the safe room, before more reinforcements arrive!’</p><p>‘You’re alive, Dai!’ Ahmed shouted in relief and stumbled into the room, stepping over more dead until he reached the opening in the ground.</p><p>‘Of course I am. Who do you think I am?’</p><p>Hakim burst into roaring laughter as he passed him to pat onto Malik’s shoulder. ‘The grumpiest bureau leader between Jaffa and Medina, that’s for sure!’</p><p>The Dai only groaned in frustration. ‘How many times do I have to repeat myself, Hakim: get lost and do so fast.’</p><p>Altaïr watched the two assassins disappear, but remained standing on the threshold despite the other glaring daggers at him.</p><p>‘Do you need a written invitation?’</p><p>Malik wasn’t a patient man under more favorable circumstances and he obviously wasn’t keen on expanding that trait right now with his bureau raided and hastily evacuated.</p><p>‘Depends,’ Altaïr heard himself say, unable to rein in his suddenly way too loose tongue. ‘Do you write poems?’</p><p>Malik scoffed, but his mouth curved upwards, a mischievous glint in his soft black eyes, intentionally or not. ‘I prefer a more direct approach.’</p><p>Pulling the throwing knife free from the doorframe with more force than expected, Altaïr let the weapon dangle in front of him. ‘Like a knife to the face.’</p><p>‘For starters. Aside of you, I’ve been expecting more Templars, too. It had been a fifty-fifty chance of success. Fighting them at close range grew tiresome, so I had to switch strategies.’</p><p>Altaïr eyed the corpses bearing sword wounds in silent awe, before he stepped closer. ‘Hakim is only half-right about one thing though. You are not only the grumpiest Dai from the Levant down to central Arabia – you are also the most lethal.’ Offering the small knife for Malik to pick up, he bent to enter the trapdoor, when a hand grabbed his forearm instead of the offered weapon.</p><p> </p><p>‘Altaïr!’</p><p> </p><p>Ah. Another of these small words, yet this time freighted with meaning, thick with emotion.</p><p>‘It wasn’t my intention to injure you.’</p><p>Again, a smile of thankfulness flitted across Altaïr’s lips. He was smiling a lot today, for wildly different reasons. ‘That’s good to know, Dai. And if you don’t want your knife back, I would suggest a fair trade for compensation.’</p><p>Retrieving the map from his back, he tapped it against the other’s chest. ‘Once we relocate your bureau, you will need a new, old map to work on.’</p><p>Altaïr watched in glee as the other first stared at the piece of parchment, before he folded it gingerly and let it disappear into the inner pouch of his robe. When he turned to him once more, he was leveling him with a glare of quiet amusement.</p><p>‘The house is on fire, death and devastation all across each room, and here you are, sauntering in to collect my maps like others would pick flowers on a meadow.’</p><p>Altaïr really hoped that this version of a smile was as charming as it felt to him. ‘You’re quite welcome,’ he said.</p><p>‘Altaïr, you’re already halfway through the trapdoor. I have to resist the urge to push you down completely.’</p><p>Altaïr wanted to retort something witty, something with snark and charm. What fell from his lips had been something completely different though.</p><p>‘I feared for you. Saw you lying in a pool of your own blood again,’ he had to pause, looking up to the other to gauge his reaction. ‘I’ve never been as frightened for my own life as I was for yours.’</p><p>Malik’s joking smile vanished in the blink of an eye and was replaced by a slack-jawed stare.</p><p>‘I’ve never stopped caring,’ Altaïr continued for he feared that once he’d run dry of words, they would return to their routine of half-truths and regrets. ‘I don’t deserve you, but my feelings for you never changed.’</p><p>In all honesty, Altaïr had been expecting a heartfelt shove down the opening in the floor just as Malik had threatened, maybe even accompanied by a kick to the ribs for emphasis. The hand that pulled his hood down to rake through his curls came as unexpected as the harsh kiss that was pressed to his lips. It tasted of blood and salt and the whole scene should’ve been bizarre, yet Altaïr’s mind was back at screaming the other’s name in endless loops and he returned the kiss unrestrained, both hands clawed into the black robe for anchoring.</p><p>‘Malik,’ he murmured over and over against his lips in between each nib.</p><p>In the end, it was only this very word that really mattered to Altaïr – as short and laden with meaning it might be.</p><p>The push through the trapdoor came belatedly, when voices were heard from the roof, and if their situation wouldn’t have been so dire, Altaïr would’ve laughed out loud as they tumbled down the corridor that led to Jerusalem’s labyrinth of catacombs with flailing limbs.</p><p>Altaïr’s smile stayed once more, as did the little word, this short name that rang through his mind like the chime of a bell.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <a href="http://blood-and-pepper.tumblr.com/">uhm, hello</a>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. questions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>and suddenly: Chapter 2. </p><p>I don't really know how this happened, it plopped into existence on its own.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Roasted chicken was his favorite.</p><p>With a sprinkle of sesame seed, roasted, too. Freshly baked bread. Pickled vegetables in olive oil.</p><p>
  <em>Nice.</em>
</p><p>Malik was almost able to taste it on his tongue and smell the fragrances that wafted in the air, even if he was absolutely sure that he must be dreaming. Granted, it was the best dream he had in ages, but it remained a dream nonetheless. He wanted to stay and indulge in the culinary picture for a bit longer, but something at the fringes of his mind was definitely off, and the longer he lingered, the more poignant the feeling got.</p><p>There was a dull throb in his left flank. A pulsating pain in his shoulder. And the world around him swayed and danced. Up and down and back again. The odor of sweat and horse hung in the air and he couldn’t control the movement of his head: it lolled on someone’s shoulder like it didn’t belong to his body at all. Malik knew he should open his eyes to confirm the picture that had already formed before his inner eye, but he wanted to stay with his roasted chicken and its side-dishes for a bit longer. He groaned in frustration.</p><p>‘Ah. Good, you’re alive. He would’ve killed me on the spot, if he were to know that I let you die on my caravan back to Masyaf.’</p><p>Hakim. Malik knew that voice. Good, old pig-head Hakim. Well, no longer so pig-headed as he had been in his youth, but his pet name still stuck even after all the years they’d trained together.</p><p>‘Wait. Scratch that ‘on the spot’. Knowing him, he would have made me regret being born first, and <em>then</em> killed me. With a fork. Or a spoon. Or both. We both know he could do that.’</p><p>Malik wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about – or about whom, but in order to get answers, he would have to finally open his eyes first and then unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth.</p><p>In the end, the world was exactly the unappealing image he’d already put together in the silence of his mind and another groan made it past his lips, because for once he didn’t like to find his own assumptions being verified so bluntly.</p><p>For one thing, he was indeed sitting high on horseback with Hakim right behind, holding him between the reins and for another thing, his body ached with wounds he had no memory how he received them. Also, something must have died in his mouth, because the taste was so vile, it made swallowing a herculean task, so he didn’t even try.</p><p>As if the other had sensed his thoughts, the bottleneck of a canteen was pressed to Malik’s lips with care and he gulped down the water with a thirst he hadn’t known he possessed. The world slowly regained its contours after that.</p><p>‘whatayatalkin’bout.’</p><p>Malik didn’t recognize his own voice, the whole sentence a mash of consonants with barely a vowel. Beneath him, Hakim’s chest rumbled with a good-natured laugh.</p><p>‘I’m talking about Altaïr. And how he would kill me, if you were to die and I would have to deliver your corpse. Maybe he will even end me when I return with you injured. Who knows.’</p><p>‘He wouldn’t.’</p><p>Now Hakim’s laughter grew sardonic and Malik knew that a lopsided sneer must be pulling at the other’s lips without even looking.</p><p>‘He absolutely would, Dai. You’ve never seen him when he is in such a mood.’</p><p>What was Hakim talking about? He tried in vain to twist in the saddle, but a spike of pain ended whatever endeavor he had planned on.</p><p>‘Mood? What mood?’</p><p>‘When he fears for your life,’ Hakim said. ‘Remember when your bureau had been raided? I’ve been with him when he rushed to your aid, not knowing if you were still alive or not – you should’ve seen him, Malik. The whole world narrowed down on you and how to get to you: He became single-minded and without hesitance. And also without mercy.’ Here he paused for long moment, weighing the words that must’ve been sitting on the tip of his tongue. ‘I don’t know about you, but he loves you deeply.’</p><p> </p><p>Damn.</p><p> </p><p>Hakim <em>knew</em> and that fact seeped into Malik’s veins like ice water. This could possibly be their downfall. Malik was rarely speechless, but all that was left for him to do was to sit frozen to the spot without an answer or rebuke that would be fitting or convincing.</p><p>‘Relax, my friend,’ Hakim said. ‘Your secret is safe with me. No one would believe me, either. I mean, look at the both of you from above: the fallen master assassin and the one rafik who has all the right in the world to hate his guts? Unthinkable.’</p><p>‘Yes, truly unimaginable,’ Malik deadpanned. Unnoticeably, anger had found its way into his voice, and Malik had no idea where it had come from – and why. A chuckle from behind plucked him from his musings.</p><p>‘You’re grumpy again, Malik,’ Hakim said, a smile still audible in the timbre of his voice. ‘And you know what the one thing is that’s so unthinkably funny about it? You would kill for him, too, wouldn’t you?’</p><p>The anger remained and Malik bristled at the question he refused to answer – not that he even had an answer for in the first place. He was well aware that Hakim meant no harm, but the man was asking questions that hit home too close for comfort. Usually, he crammed questions like these into the deepest and darkest corner of his mind to let them simmer there – until they jumped at him at the most ill-fitting times, plunging him into turmoil and, more often than not, bouts of rage. It wasn’t as if Malik would be anywhere near ready to face such a question right now, and the constant pain from his wounds only served to worsen his state.</p><p>He tried to keep the venom of his words at a minimum, but failed utterly. ‘Care to enlighten me why this would be oh so funny?!’</p><p>Hakim chuckled once more and Malik gnashed his teeth in annoyance. ‘Because for the most obvious reason: You should kill <em>him</em>, not kill <em>for</em> him. Hypothetically or not. For you still haven’t answered my question, my friend, but that’s okay. You don’t have to. That’s between you and God.’</p><p>Malik was tired and his whole body hurt - and this man was asking things he shied away from out of instinct. He hadn’t planned on answering the question in the first place, so Hakim’s willingness to let it rest came as a blessing, but he had to admit that the other had a point: Viewed from above, Altaïr and he should be enemies for life.</p><p>But they weren’t, not anymore.</p><p>Malik loved him, no doubt about that, but to the point of mindless murder? How deep went his love? What would he sacrifice for Altaïr? And on top of that: would he confess all of that to someone like Hakim?</p><p>Their bond must be noticeable enough for someone like him to pick up on, even if he witnessed Altaïr in a moment of great distress. That didn’t gloss over the fact that he himself was quite as predictable - and that without an epic pivotal moment to begin with.</p><p>A groan escaped him for the third time in a row.</p><p>‘Hang in there, Dai. We’re half a day from Masyaf. You’ll make it, I’ll promise,’ Hakim said, and after a moment of thought, he added, ‘For your sake as well as for mine.’</p><p>Pressing his eyes closed, Malik felt exhaustion drag him down and he fought with sleep again, Hakim’s question and all it entailed still in the forefront of his mind.</p><p>Maybe Malik should ask questions himself. Questions like: what in Allah’s name had happened for him to end up injured on horseback, or where the rest of their convoy was, but he could neither muster the will nor the energy.</p><p>The faint smell of roasted chicken was back and it made him smile through the pain coursing through his system, as his dream picked him up again and carried him away to a realm that didn’t ask questions he wasn’t able to answer.</p><p>*</p><p>Malik knew he must’ve been out for quite some time, but untangling from the dream was harder than expected – especially if the reality awaiting him was rather unappealing in comparison to the heavenly dish that still provided such a lovely scenery.</p><p>‘Roasted…chicken…,’ he mumbled, almost able to taste it on his tongue.</p><p>A low chuckle answered him. One that specifically didn’t sound like Hakim at all and Malik took this as the last invitation to let go of his dream, yet refused to blink his eyes open. His body still ached, but here was a calloused hand resting on the side of his neck, feeling for his pulse in such an intimate way that it ruled out belonging to a healer. When a soft kiss was pressed onto his forehead, a smile rose to his lips.</p><p>‘Altaïr.’</p><p>‘Hm?’</p><p>Opening his eyes was easier after that and finding his lover hovering above him let his smile widen. Malik remembered that he had to ask questions. Important ones, so he started with the first that came to his mind.</p><p>‘What happened? I feel as if I had been eaten and spit out by djinn.’</p><p>The hand on his pulse point remained and Malik was glad for the small message it sent: It told of ‘I’m here and not going anywhere else’.</p><p>‘From what Hakim told me, you got into an ambush on your way here. He said you fought like a lion, but you got rather roughed up I fear.’</p><p>Yes, Malik dimly recalled a fight, but the finer details eluded him.</p><p>‘And the rest of the caravan?’</p><p>Another of those questions that were still in need for an answer.</p><p>‘Arrived yesterday evening, more or less in one piece.’</p><p>Malik relaxed back into the bedding and Altaïr’s hand wandered from his neck up to rest on his cheek where it drew small circles in silent affection.</p><p>‘Now rest, you’ve lost a lot of blood.’</p><p>There were other questions still waiting to be asked, but Malik’s eyes grew heavy again. Before he slipped into the world of dreams again, he remembered another, flashing right behind his tired eyes.</p><p>‘You…haven’t killed Hakim, have you?’</p><p>Altaïr’s hand ceased its course on his skin for a moment.</p><p>‘Why in the Prophet’s name should I kill him?’</p><p>Question and counter question, but Malik found his answer in between the lines again, as it had always been the case with Altaïr. With a sigh, he let sleep take him into their arms again.</p><p>*</p><p>Malik woke to the smell of roasted chicken.</p><p>It should’ve been funny how persistent his dream appeared to be, but the sheer quality of the fragrance wafting in the air let doubt rise and he blinked his eyes open only to choke on a laugh his sleep-dry throat wasn’t able to deliver. He coughed and spluttered until he made it into a half sitting position with an honest smile on his lips – and the dish he had dreamed off perching in a bowl right beside him.</p><p>‘Incredible,’ he said once he found the voice to speak.</p><p>‘What. I was under impression that you wanted roasted chicken.’ Altaïr sounded a bit miffed. ‘I bribed the cook to make <em>this</em> instead of lentil soup.’</p><p><em>This</em> was a far cry from the dish his elaborated dreamscape had conjured, but it qualified as half a chicken with some flatbread and Malik heard his stomach rumble in answer.</p><p>‘See? Your stomach agrees.’ A smile as bright as the star that was his name giver danced across Altaïr’s face when he pushed the bowl closer to underline his message. ‘Malik. Eat.’</p><p>Yes, Malik was most definitely in love with this man – for more than the reason that he provided the food that had haunted his fever dreams, but he swallowed this insight together with the first bite of bread. God, he really must be half-starved, because the bowl emptied in record time, while Altaïr still watched him in silent glee, snitching pieces of chicken now and then with swift fingers and if Malik would’ve still possessed a left hand, he would’ve slapped him for doing so. Wholeheartedly.</p><p>‘So, now that you’ve got your chicken, tell me why I should or shouldn’t kill Hakim.’ Altaïr’s question took him off-guard for he was still munching on a long bone.</p><p>‘You will not kill Hakim,’ Malik said between two more bites, leveling his lover with a stern stare and the almost-blank chicken bone.</p><p>‘You haven’t answered the most basic question, my heart, so I ask again: <em>why</em>,’ Altaïr said, snatching the bone being pointed at him and continued to nibble at the last bits of meat.</p><p>‘One reason,’ Malik said, distracted by how Altaïr’s mouth moved while he ate, full lips ashine with oil. ‘Hakim knows about us.’</p><p>Altaïr stopped in mid-motion, eyes turning sharp and calculating, before he exhaled with a deep sigh, putting away the remains of their meal. ‘I already assumed that, to be honest. He was with me during the attack on your bureau; saw me panicking because I feared you were dead.’</p><p>Malik let himself sag back into the cushions, careful not to aggravate his wounds. ‘He said as much. You were very transparent in your worry and he put two and two together. But I think he is on our side, Altaïr. Also, he’s far from stupid. He wouldn’t accuse us without evidence and personal gain. He would make himself the laughing stock of Masyaf. I mean, look at us. Us, as in <em>the two of us</em> with all that we are and represent.’</p><p>It was satisfactory to see the same silent anger well up in Altaïr as it had in him, when Hakim confronted him with the duality of their characters and shared history.</p><p>‘Then he knows <em>nothing</em>,’ he spat, hands clawing into the blanket.</p><p>‘And that’s for the best. He’s in no need for the how’s and why’s,’ Malik said in a pacifying tone. ‘He really assumed that you would kill him in a fit, if I died on his watch.’</p><p>Malik watched Altaïr’s golden eyes darken when the message hit home.</p><p>‘I would.’</p><p>‘You wouldn’t,’ Malik countered with conviction. ‘I know how rage poisons one from deep within. You will not fall prey to that, under no circumstances, promise me that, Altaïr. You’re stronger than that.’</p><p>Instead of an answer, he gnashed his teeth, his whole body under strain. ‘I can’t promise you that, my heart, I can’t,’ he said, and softer, ‘But for you, I’ll try.’</p><p>For Malik, those few words were enough. He didn’t really need promises clad in iron, as long as Altaïr was willing to try for their sake. With a wince, Malik rose from the pillows and spanned the short space separating them. Leaning in close, he drank in his proximity and the tension that still rolled off the other in waves invisible.</p><p>Their kiss came naturally, easing the worry that had surrounded them, made room to breathe again, for it was their way to answer another question.</p><p>Suddenly, Malik asked himself why Hakim’s question was so damn hard to answer in the first place.</p><p> </p><p>He wouldn’t kill in a bout of rage anymore.</p><p> </p><p>His love for Altaïr went deep without the need to do so.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't like the trope 'I would kill for you out of love'. </p><p>BECAUSE IT'S STUPID and immature. I love the boys trying to grow up. Well, Alty has still to hit the learning curve, but he'll learn.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. dead chicken</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please note that the name 'Kadar' is indeed gender neutral.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His name was Nicodemos and Altaïr wanted him dead.</p><p>Sadly enough, there was no feather in his belt that would’ve sanctioned his assassination, no direct order by the Grandmaster himself that would’ve otherwise served as legitimation.</p><p>No, Altaïr wished him dead out of very personal reasons that didn’t really involve the Brotherhood – reasons that made his blood boil and his Sight go red whenever he looked at him.</p><p>Right now, the source of his ire leant closer to Malik, eying the snip of paper that lay between them on the desk with a deep frown.</p><p> </p><p>‘There must be a way to break the code, we’re overlooking something,’ he said and Malik hummed in confirmation, scribbling something onto his own notes.</p><p> </p><p>‘My Greek isn’t good enough, Nico, but there’s a strange rhythm to the sentences that may lead somewhere.’</p><p> </p><p>Altaïr cringed at the pet name, turning to face the window in order not to make his displeasure known.</p><p> </p><p>‘Your Greek is fine, Dai,’ he heard the other say and tightened his fist until his nails dug into the meat of his palm to distract him from what else the other said. He couldn’t stand the soft, pleasing tone in which he addressed Malik.</p><p> </p><p>Nicodemos was the bureau’s newly appointed healer after the previous one retired, and Altaïr disliked everything about him: Healers were supposed to be old men with flowing beards – not ones close to their own age, if not younger. They should be dour and crinkly eremites – not charmingly handsome foreigners who spoke fluent Arabic and half a dozen other languages.</p><p>Taking a sip of his tea to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth, Altaïr tried to tune out the other men’s debate to no avail, always zooming in and out whenever something deepened his suspicion. By now, Malik was eying him from the side in irritation as he had most likely taken note of his foul mood. The last thing Altaïr wanted was to rile up his lover, no matter how much the mere presence of the healer aggravated him.</p><p>Sighing in defeat, Altaïr stood and strolled to the atrium where he sank onto the cushions to… what? Pout in dismay? Bemoan his very existence? Wallow in heartache?</p><p>Trying to joke away his own insecurity in the silence of his mind seemed to be a good course of action, even though it didn’t take the weight off his soul. He was acting like a lovesick little girl who was in a sulk because it didn’t get the attention it demanded. But his dismay went deeper than that. He wasn’t really feeling neglected. Taking in a deep breath, Altaïr exhaled a soundless sigh.</p><p>He could’ve denied the source of his misery with his usual stubbornness, yet the truth was bound to shine in different colors: He was blindingly, hotly and stupidly jealous – and that in itself was a completely new experience for Altaïr. There had never been a time, when he had to fight for Malik’s attention, never before had he to witness someone else getting close to the man who held his heart. Sure, Kadar had been their constant companion, but those ties were of a completely different nature that didn’t warrant jealousy from his side. Altaïr would’ve preferred not to make this sour experience, but here he was.</p><p>Against better judgement, his eyes had wandered to the desk again, where the two men still sat hunched over the piece of paper that was so relevant for his ongoing mission, translating words and juggling syllables to find an answer to its riddle.</p><p>Nicodemos was important for the bureau and the assassins – himself included and the healer had cut more than one arrow from his flesh and stitched him back together on numerous occasions, but these acts alone didn’t rule out that Altaïr deemed him too close to Malik.</p><p>Granted, the healer was rather pleasing to look at, but to Altaïr’s eyes, everything about the man was too much <em>‘too’</em>:</p><p>Features too handsome. Eyes too light. Body too lithe. A smile too bright. And a mind too sharp.</p><p>It would’ve been easier to dismiss all of those attributes, if he would be a mediocre healer, but he exceeded in that part, too. Another of these ‘too’s. Altaïr cursed under his breath.  </p><p>He was neither used to jealousy nor was he used to being overshadowed by someone else - even if it were in fields he had no expertise in.</p><p>A laugh tore him from of his thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, my friend,’ he heard Malik say, voice light and joking. ‘I’m absolutely sure that the Templar Brotherhood invented this particular cipher only to let your hair turn grey.’</p><p> </p><p>And here came the worst part: Malik actually cherished the man’s presence. Their conversations were always open and friendly and the smile that was usually reserved for Altaïr flew to him just as easily.</p><p> </p><p>‘Listen, Dai, when Al Mualim appointed me to this job, he didn’t mention that I would have to solve codes in ancient Greek,’ Nicodemos quipped with a laugh on his own. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t have slept through so many lessons on language and literature.’</p><p> </p><p>Altaïr wasn’t able to name what possessed him to rise to full height in order to stand looming in the doorway, looking down at both men with a sneer already tugging at his upper lip.</p><p> </p><p>‘Then you should’ve invested more energy to really benefit our Brotherhood. You seem to add few enough to provide for the solution to the task at hand,’ he said, words cold and with the intent to hurt.</p><p> </p><p>A leaden silence stretched between them that was suddenly disrupted by a chair scraping over the tiles, before it crashed to the ground with a bang.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>‘How dare you.’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Malik stood leaning over the desk, seething with anger, eyes as sharp and dark as obsidian, and Altaïr dreaded that his ire was once more directed at him, but it was too late for regrets, his own vile words were already out in the open with all of their impact.  </p><p>And Malik wasn’t one to be known for patience and a soft temper. Taking one resolute step forward, his order already rang in the air before he voiced it aloud.</p><p>‘Get out!’</p><p>Next to him, the healer tried to pour oil on troubled waters by relativizing the insults and their meaning, and he went as far as to joke about his own education again, but Malik ended his attempts with a curt gesture that left no room for compromise, still leveling Altaïr with an unforgiving stare.</p><p>
  <em>‘Out. Now.’</em>
</p><p>Altaïr knew the benefits of a tactical retreat by heart. He’d learned the hard way – especially if Malik was his direct opponent - so he lifted his chin in defiance, but turned on his heel without looking back, clambering up the fountain’s relief by muscle memory alone, because his mind still remained in the room he’d just been cast out.</p><p>He fell into a sprint once he reached the rooftops, the late afternoon sun hot on the back of his neck. He ran until his lungs ached and sweat beaded down his back, gluing the fabric to his overheated skin. It came as a small mercy that he didn’t rouse the suspicion of the few archers he ran past, but slowly the realization sank in that he wasn’t able to maintain his mad race across Jerusalem’s roofs for an infinite amount of time. Descending a ladder, he stepped onto the dirty streets of the poor district, mingling with the townsfolk with no clear aim in mind, still dodging guards and other unpleasant beings that littered there.</p><p>In the end, he settled on a bench with his arms folded upon his knees, foregoing his hood for the sake of the fresh breeze that slowly dried his sweat-soaked hair and furthermore eased his troubled mind at least a little bit.</p><p>In the Prophet’s name, what had he himself gotten into this time? It was all and utterly his own fault and that insight sat like bitter medicine in the pit of his stomach, poisoning his very being. He’d brought Malik’s rage upon him with his eyes wide open, because he gave in to jealousy and mistrust. He groaned in frustration, dragging a hand across his clammy face, wracking his brain for a solution out of the stalemate he’d maneuvered himself into so formidably.</p><p> </p><p>‘Hey. Are you okay?’</p><p> </p><p>The worried voice picked him from his dark thoughts like the muezzin that called for prayer and his head snapped up. A teenaged girl with a basket propped up on her hip stood beside him, mustering him out of light green eyes. Her cloths were rough-spun, but clean and the ease with that she held herself spoke of a certain self-assuredness that was rarely found in someone that age. It was one of Altaïr’s finest skills to sort people into certain categories and his eagle vision only underlined that fact. It startled him though that the girl shone bright blue once he graced his sight over her.</p><p>She wasn’t supposed to be an ally, but there was no mistaking: She was one of theirs – at least to a certain degree. Maybe it was due to that fact that Altaïr deigned to answer her question truthfully.</p><p> </p><p>‘No. No, I’m not. Not really.’</p><p> </p><p>Startled by his honest answer, she seemed to pause for a moment before she put her basket to the ground to settle next to it in one fluent move, straightening her veil that went askew in the process.</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s okay. Some days, you just aren’t ‘okay’.’</p><p> </p><p>Altaïr smiled at her simple, yet somehow wise answer.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, that much is true,’ he said. ‘But I brought this special type of ‘not-okay’ upon myself in my own stupidity.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Alright. How so?’</p><p> </p><p>Her gaze was open and welcoming, framing her question in a context of honest concern instead of prodding and interrogation. He knew that he was under no obligation to answer her question, but the blue halo still emanating off of her made him reconsider.</p><p> </p><p>‘I got jealous,’ he answered, and, repeating the words his mind had spawned out before, he spoke aloud, 'blindingly, hotly and stupidly jealous.’</p><p> </p><p>The girl’s laughter rang through the air like the chime of a small bell.</p><p> </p><p>‘You must love her a lot.’</p><p> </p><p>A small smile rose to his features speaking of an answer long before he was willing to provide it verbally.</p><p> </p><p>‘Yes, I do.’</p><p> </p><p>Leaning her head into her hand, she leveled him with a raised eyebrow. ‘I’m in no position to dish out life advice, but I know one thing, Mr. Golden-Eyes: If you really love her that deeply, then I would say that you should learn to trust her.’</p><p> </p><p>Ah.</p><p>Here it was.</p><p>The crux of the matter.</p><p> </p><p>‘I trust him with my heart. With my soul,’ he said with a conviction he felt down to his very being.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ah. I see,’ she said, absolutely undeterred by the change of pronouns – and if nothing else would’ve been able to confirm her status as an ally – that alone would’ve done the trick. ‘Then: Where’s the problem?’</p><p> </p><p>It should’ve been disgraceful, but his mouth hung open for a few long moments as he struggled to find an answer before he gave up searching.</p><p> </p><p>‘True. Where’s the problem…’ he stammered in honest confusion, staring into the girl’s open face. In the end, she took pity on him.</p><p> </p><p>‘See? The only problem left to amend is how to reconcile you with your love. You have to apologize properly, honestly.’</p><p> </p><p>Yes, nothing easier than that with short-tempered Malik and his righteous anger. Altaïr knew that his voice was smaller than it had ever been, but he had to ask the question of all questions.</p><p> </p><p>‘How?’</p><p> </p><p>Producing something from the depths of her basket, she held it out in front of her with bright smile that ruled out any counter questions that might’ve arisen otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Try this.’</p><p> </p><p>It shouldn’t have been so funny, but dangling inches from his face was a dead chicken, held up by the legs, its eyes staring at him in silent accusation.</p><p> </p><p>Altaïr smiled to himself: Chicken was Malik’s favorite – accusative or not.</p><p> </p><p>‘Two silvers,’ the girl said, and Altaïr was inclined to attribute this whole conversation to a very clever sales pitch, but, still, she emanated such a clear aura of blue that he fished a solid gold coin from his purse and handed it over to her, closing her fingers over it for emphasis.</p><p> </p><p>‘Here. For your counseling advice,’ he said in a good-natured tone and snatched the chicken from her grasp in a practiced move with his other hand.</p><p> </p><p>The smile almost split her face. ‘You’re a thief, too! The Prophet’s blessings upon you, Mister Golden-Eyes!’</p><p> </p><p>Maybe one fine day, she would make it into the ranks of the Brotherhood Altaïr pondered as he tied the chicken to his belt and began to climb the ladder. Before he was able to reach the rooftop, he twisted on his axis to shout down the question that was somehow overdue.</p><p> </p><p>‘What’s your name, girl?’</p><p> </p><p>Her smile was as warm as the sun already going down in the west, casting its orange rays across the horizon in order to embrace the beginning night.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m Kadar. Like ‘destiny’.’</p><p> </p><p>A shiver ran down Altaïr’s back and he had to tighten his hold to the rung, but a smile rose to his features nonetheless. It felt as if some tiny part of his life had come to a full circle.</p><p> </p><p>‘Of course you are,’ he said, finally reaching the top of the roof. ‘Goodbye, Kadar.’ Uttering these words installed peace in the farthest realms of his soul and made him breathe with ease again, so he had to utter them again, even though she was most likely already unable to hear him as he stood tall against Jerusalem’s skyline of minarets and steeples. ‘Goodbye, Kadar.’</p><p> </p><p>Altaïr ran and ran until his muscle memory told him to stop. The Brotherhood’s insignia decorated the sandstone tiles at his feet and he let himself fall down the wooden lattice with practiced ease, landing in a pile of pillows without a sound.</p><p> </p><p>‘Ah. You’re finally back. I already began to wonder whether you’ve fled the city.’</p><p>Malik’s rage had apparently cooled down a bit, even though his words still dripped with sarcasm and Altaïr took a careful step over the bureau’s threshold, gazing into the dimly lit room. Nicodemos was gone and Malik sat at the table, a cup of tea in hand, mustering him with a frown and silent expectation.</p><p>Altaïr had mulled over the wording of his apology the whole way back to the office – only to stand in front of his lover with an empty head and a knot in his tongue.</p><p>Malik waited a few moments in tense silence, then shook his head clearly annoyed, setting aside his drink in order to point at a slip of paper.</p><p> </p><p>‘Here’s the solution to your riddle. We broke the code. Now it would be wise to consider your sleeping accommodation, for my bed is out of options for obvious reasons.’</p><p> </p><p>Dusting invisible dirt off his robes, he rose and turned to leave without another word.</p><p>Altaïr knew he had to act now, otherwise the whole dilemma would fester like an untreated wound, yet, still, no words were small or big enough to express his sorrow.</p><p> </p><p>‘Malik, I’m sorry. Chicken?’</p><p> </p><p>In hindsight, shoving the chicken into Malik’s direct field of view wasn’t the best course of action; it halted his retreat from the room though, but apparently, four words were enough to make an utter fool of himself, as he stood there, his priced present dangling from his hand. He had never been good with words – but this? ‘Disaster’ only described it rudimentally. In the meantime, Malik must’ve come to the same conclusion, as he pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed in exasperation.</p><p> </p><p>‘Altaïr…’ he groaned, even if the corners of his mouth pulled up a bit. Maybe that tiny smile was the opening Altaïr needed, the push in the right direction.</p><p> </p><p>Lowering the dead bird onto the table, Altaïr tried again – this time with a deep sigh as a prelude and words that finally formed more complex sentences.</p><p> </p><p>‘I mean it, Malik, I’m sorry. I acted like a child and insulted one of our own. I watched the two of you and I got so…so…’</p><p> </p><p>‘Jealous.’</p><p> </p><p>A tiny nod had to serve as an answer, for something held Altaïr’s throat in a chokehold. He audibly swallowed to be able to talk again.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m not used to competition in regards to you.’</p><p> </p><p>‘I don’t know how to break the news to you so that they will make it into your bonehead,’ Malik said, anger lacing his words again, trying to find patience. ‘Nico isn’t ‘competition’ in any way. Neither romantic nor otherwise. I treasure him as a friend and brother of the creed and that’s all that’s to say about it. And you will have to live with it and be civil in his presence from now on. Are we clear?’</p><p> </p><p>Altaïr knew that he deserved the tongue-lashing, but admitting his misconduct was still harder than expected.</p><p> </p><p>‘Understood,’ he answered thin-lipped. ‘Again, I’m sorry, Malik. I will do better next time.’</p><p> </p><p>This time, it was Malik’s turn to heave a sigh, but at least the tension and the anger was seeping out of his body. Gesturing to the carcass still lying on the tabletop, he cocked his head to the side, the small smile from earlier back on his lips.</p><p> </p><p>‘Now tell me about the chicken.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Chicken is your favorite dish.’</p><p> </p><p>A low chuckle answered him. Then the smile gained width and irony. ‘You don’t say. But it’s hardly what one would call a romantic gift.’</p><p> </p><p>‘And that’s a good thing,’ Altaïr countered, ‘for you don’t have one romantic bone in your body, my love.’</p><p> </p><p>Teeth flashed white when Malik laughed out loud, and Altaïr took it as the last invitation to come closer. Cupping his face in his hands, their lips met halfway, already expecting the other.</p><p> </p><p>‘I love you, you know,’ Altaïr said against his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>‘I know that you’re one jealous bastard. Who loves me beyond reason.’</p><p> </p><p>‘That’s exactly the problem.'</p><p> </p><p>‘Then I’ll have to teach you reason,’ Malik said, untangling from his hold and stepping on. As he reached the bureau’s threshold that lead to the private quarters, he gazed over his shoulder at Altaïr who still stood in the middle of the room.</p><p> </p><p>‘Are you coming?’</p><p> </p><p>‘I thought that I was to search for other sleeping accommodations...’</p><p> </p><p>‘That would be counterproductive, for I plan on starting my teachings <em>now</em>.’</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Altaïr loved the lewd smile that shone on his lover’s face, as he hurried catch up with him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. thank you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Okay, this chapter is dedicated to InsanitysxCreation, who wanted the roasted chicken back. So, here you go!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘You have always been golden.’ </em>
</p><p>Altaïr’s voice was rough from sleep and Malik was sure that he hadn’t meant to voice that sentence aloud. The bright white hood had slipped back onto his shoulders, leaving him open and strangely vulnerable. Purplish shadows like old bruises lay beneath his eyes, giving away how bone tired he must be. Being stripped of rank and honor and forced to carry out every command Al Mualim dished out surely took his toll on him. Malik watched in fascination as his shining eyes turned brown again, his sight deactivating after he had startled him from his slumber.</p><p>Frankly spoken, he hadn’t expected Altaïr to be back so soon and when he found him collapsed on the carpets of the atrium, they both jerked up and away like spooked animals that overstepped an invisible boundary.</p><p>Then Altaïr’s sleep-mumbled words began to sink in and Malik’s frown deepened.</p><p>‘There’s nothing golden about me.’</p><p>The answering smile was heavy with a sadness Malik felt resonating in his bones. In brighter days, words like this would’ve meant something, but now, in this harsh reality, they were nothing but an after-image of something dead and gone. Gone like Kadar. Gone like his left arm. Malik exhaled a sigh before the bitterness of his thoughts would be able to spread. No, there was nothing golden left in him, no matter what Altaïr’s eagle eyes saw in him.</p><p>When Altaïr first had returned to Jerusalem, Malik had reveled in his haggardness, the obvious strain he was under, because it served him right: He had to suffer, had to contemplate on his misdeeds and his bodily decay was only the outward indication of an inner process.</p><p>Now, this withered state was like his constant companion and he wore his exhaustion like a thorny crown as he scurried across the Holy Land from one city to the next, sawing death, and returning from every mission more gnawed down than before. It shouldn’t trouble Malik the way it did. Hadn’t he asked for Altaïr’s head as compensation for all his losses? When had this changed? He wasn’t able to place it.</p><p>‘Forget about it. I didn’t mean to rile you up.’</p><p>Altaïr’s words plucked him from his musings. The other had settled onto a cushion again, feigning indifference, but failing spectacularly, for Malik knew him better than most, reading the tense line of his jaw and his squared shoulders as what they were: a deep uneasiness and the attempt to keep up appearances at all costs.</p><p>For the fraction of a second Malik pondered to needle him further out of deep rooted pettiness, but in the end, he just heaved another sigh and turned on his axis. He was sure that he saw Altaïr’s shoulders relax in relief out of the corner of his eyes. That fact, too, sat like lead in the pit of his stomach.  </p><p>Refilling the tea glass that sat on his desk, he tried to get his kaleidoscope of thoughts in some semblance of working order, but watched in silent wonder how his own hand poured another glass and added sugar out of muscle memory instead. The small silver spoon twirled in the glass for longer than necessary before Malik removed it with a last, clear <em>clink</em> to the rim.</p><p>Altaïr’s eyes snapped up when he placed the drink onto the small side table, confusion evident in every line of his face. Malik was glad that the underlying tension didn’t find its way back into his gestures though. Offering a guest some tea was the most basic form of hospitality – one that even Altaïr was worthy of – but there was more to it. Taking in Altaïr’s sunken eyes, Malik knew the feeling that bubbled up. It was a mix of pity, worry and something he had deemed buried six feet under.</p><p>‘Rest,’ Malik said with a sigh, before he turned again.</p><p>This time, a small smile followed him. One that spoke of ‘<em>thank you’</em>.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>‘You’ve baked way too many pastries, Martha...’</p><p>The bureau’s cook crossed her wiry arms in front of her chest, leveling him with a defiant stare out of dark eyes.</p><p>‘There is no such thing on God’s green earth as, I quote, <em>too many pastries</em>, Master Malik. Someone will always eat what you deem too much. You could easily help with that <em>problem</em> by eating a few more on your own; you’ve grown skinny due to all of your overthinking and constant scowling.’</p><p>Malik spluttered half in annoyance, half in self-awareness, but gave in and took the plate without a clear answer and wanted to head for his office.</p><p>‘Oh, and if you don’t like to eat the surplus, maybe the assassin with the sad eyes will. He’s even gaunter than the last time I’ve seen him. I know that bad things had happened between the two of you, but he must surely be undeserving of withering away like this. Take them to him, with greetings from Martha.’</p><p>There weren’t a lot of people, who had the gall to speak up to him or were even able to mention Altaïr in his presence, but Martha was one of the few exceptions and Malik relished in her openness and allowed her little oppositions now and then. Too bad that she knew about her privilege. Fundamentally, she was a kind soul and her kindness included even Altaïr, so Malik just cocked his head and nodded, before he left for good, plate in hand.</p><p>He found Altaïr sitting hunched over at a table in the farthest corner of his office, his back turned towards him and seemingly lost in deep thought. Then Malik noticed the soft scraping of a quill over paper and he craned his head to see what the other was writing.</p><p>Malik would’ve expected a shopping list, or something equally mundane, but what stared back at him from the white paper were clear attempts at calligraphy, but before he was able to take a closer look, Altaïr whisked the sheet away, flustered and embarrassed.</p><p>‘This…doesn’t concern you, Dai.’</p><p>If his deflecting sentence wouldn’t have been enough to install a wall of rejection, the usage of his title surely was.</p><p>‘I didn’t mean to pry, Novice.’ Two were able to play this game, he thought as he watched Altaïr cringe upon the returned attribute. ‘Keep your secrets if you like to.’</p><p>Altaïr was silently chewing on which words to utter. When he made up his mind, his voice was smaller than Malik had ever heard him.</p><p>‘It’s not so much of a secret. I’m just not good at it. Not yet.’</p><p>The true surprise wasn’t that Altaïr practiced calligraphy – no, it was the fact that he actually openly admitted not exceeding at it. Not long ago, he would have bragged about his skills and kept dead silent about his shortcomings. Now, here he sat, being a true novice with all that entailed and Malik liked that change.</p><p>Belatedly, he remembered his plate of pastries and lowering them in front of Altaïr, he turned around halfway, speaking over his shoulder.</p><p>‘Greetings from Martha.’</p><p>Malik was almost able to see the question mark floating over Altaïr’s head.</p><p>‘Who’s that?’</p><p>‘The bureau’s cook. And you’ve activated her mother-hen-mode with your famished look. Now eat up, otherwise <em>I</em> will have to face the consequences.’</p><p>Altaïr was spluttering in indignation. ‘I don’t have a ‘famished look’, I just…forget to eat sometimes…or are too busy.’</p><p>Malik heaved a sigh. ‘See? That’s exactly what she noticed. You can’t fool a cook.’</p><p>There was no need to mention what else didn’t escape the perceptive eyes of the bureau’s cook, but there was no way Malik felt comfortable mentioning Altaïr’s sad eyes or the mountain of things left unsaid that stood between them.</p><p>‘Now eat up.’</p><p>When the crinkled sheet of calligraphy made reappearance while Altaïr nibbled on Martha’s pastries, a smile made it onto Malik’s lips. Altaïr looked pretty much like back then, a lifetime ago, when they both were so young, writing homework and assignments while eating cookies stolen from the kitchens. Those were happy times, at least in hindsight.</p><p>Maybe it was due to this sense of nostalgia, but Malik forgot that he had wanted to leave. Instead, he pulled the chair and sat down beside the other, making a grab for one of the sweets himself, watching how the quill danced across the paper in loops and turns.</p><p>They weren’t in need for words as they shared their silence for the first time in ages. Unnoticeably, the mountain between them diminished bit by tiny bit – like pastry crumbles that were left behind on a lacquered plate.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>‘That’s a real treasure, I assure you. One of a kind! And it’s quite old! I knew a wise scholar like you would find a liking for a gem like this!’</p><p>Basically, Malik really liked Murad – at least when the merchant wasn’t babbling on and trying to sell him the shelf huggers of his assortment. He came here to get some ordinary ink plus some sepia, but he found his gaze travelling to one of the volumes that sat on the far end of Murad’s book section. It had been there for as long as Malik frequented the shop, but recent events made him notice it in a new light. Maybe it was the classical case of selective perception, but he was sure that the interest in that type of book would’ve been minimal weren’t it for Altaïr and his etudes in calligraphy.</p><p>‘I’m no scholar, my friend,’ he countered. No, he still regarded himself as an assassin of the Brotherhood, but the less Murad was to know, the better.</p><p>‘But you have undoubtedly a keen eye for the beautiful arts, the beauty of life itself,’ the merchant said, fishing the book from its place on the shelf to lay it out in front of him. It was a little gem that much was true: bound in blue leather with golden applications, its paper was of a fine quality if a bit aged from use; the book still presented the fine art of calligraphy for the one willing to learn from it.</p><p>‘It’s pleasing to God, pleasing to the Prophet – and pleasing to the girl of your heart, if she is receiving a love letter in your calligraphy, no?’</p><p>Malik couldn’t help himself; he had to laugh out loud. ‘Murad, my friend, you are the hell of one merchant, really.’</p><p>‘Two pieces gold, a special offer just for you.’ Murad’s voice was a singsong of temptation as he patted the volume like one would a cat.</p><p>‘One,’ Malik countered with steel in his voice and a laugh that reached his eyes.</p><p>The answering smile sealed the deal and Malik returned to the bureau with his inks and a book he hadn’t planned on buying, Murad be damned and praised in equal measures. Purchasing the book had been a spur of the moment thing, and now Malik stood there without a plan on how to best gift it to Altaïr without being awkward.</p><p>He was already rounding his counter, when he noticed a familiar shape lounging in the corner of the atrium. Taking a step closer, he indeed found Altaïr collapsed onto the carpets and cushions, fast asleep with softly parted lips and deep shadows beneath his eyes once more. By now Malik kept a blanket close for cases like this and throwing the colorful fabric over the sleeping body installed a strange sort of peace in him. Altaïr deserved his rest and this change in paradigm wasn’t lost on Malik.</p><p>Placing the book next to his head seemed to be the best course of action and Malik thanked the Prophet for the opportunity to get around a direct approach so easily. He left on silent soles, a huge smile on his features that scared the novices to the moon and back for the rest of the day.</p><p>Altaïr’s answer came two days later in an equally silent way, when Malik entered his office in the early hours of the morning to find a note sitting on his desk, the ink still fresh but its writer nowhere to be seen. His attempts at calligraphy had indeed improved as the letters ran evenly across the paper.</p><p>They formed words with a clear, unmistakably message and, again, a smile rose on Malik’s face.</p><p>
  <em>‘Thank you, my friend.’</em>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>  </p><p>Strange, how fast time was able to pass by, Malik thought, running his hand over the two thin scars that ran across his forehead since the raid on his bureau. They had long relocated the office and a sense of normality had found its way back by new tasks and missions. The to and fro kept Malik busy until late at night.</p><p>Again, the crescent moon hung amongst a canopy of stars, sending its white light in slowly wandering beams across the bureau.</p><p>Altaïr’s calligraphy etudes sat abandoned at the far end of his desk waiting for their writer’s return pretty much the same way Malik did. He could’ve gone to bed hours ago, but decided against it.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>‘I’ve never stopped caring.’</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Altaïr’s words rang through his mind. His bureau had been ablaze in flames when Altaïr had confessed what his heart sang to him and nothing after that had been the way it was before. So much had changed between them and so much more was yet to develop.</p><p>The soft crape of the lattice opening accompanied by the almost inaudible footfall was all Malik needed to verify the picture that had already formed in his mind. When hot breath ghosted across the back of his neck followed by a playful kiss, he leant into the touch, welcoming his lover home, leaning into the arms that embraced him from behind.</p><p>‘Do I smell chicken?’</p><p>Malik had expected a whole lot of questions of varying severity – but not this one. It made him laugh, though.</p><p>‘<em>Someone</em> dropped a dead chicken onto my table as a romantic offering yesterday and Martha took that issue to heart and produced some decent roasted chicken.’</p><p>‘How kind of her. Is it too much to expect that there’s a bit left of it?’</p><p>‘As in: left for you?’</p><p>Malik felt the other’s smile against his skin.</p><p>‘Yes, as in: left for me.’</p><p>Twisting in Altaïr’s hold, he brushed back his cowl and stole a kiss before he took his lover’s hand and guided him to the kitchen where a bowl of left over dinner sat on the counter.</p><p>Altaïr’s famished look was almost gone by now, his eyes no longer sunken or his skin ashen like desert dust, and Malik was more than grateful for that. He watched in silent glee as the other dug into his meal with wolfish hunger.</p><p>‘You once told me that I’m ‘golden’. What did you mean by it?’</p><p>Malik wasn’t sure where and why this question arose, but he’d indeed wondered for the longest time, so asking Altaïr now was as good as any other given opportunity.</p><p>Altaïr sat frozen for a moment before he lowered the chicken bone back into the bowl with a sigh.</p><p>‘You’ve startled me back then. I…I never meant to say something like that aloud,’ he finally confessed.</p><p>‘I’ve noticed. Why?’</p><p>‘My world is separated in some few, clear categories. I didn’t choose it to be like that, it’s just the way it is, how it always had been for me. Allies are bright blue. Neutral persons are white. My enemies are red, scarlet red.’</p><p>‘And I am golden,’ Malik finished that train of thought.</p><p>Altaïr nodded into his bowl, a frown on his fine features.</p><p>‘Yes, golden like my targets. And that fact had always filled me with dread, for I feared that, one day, I would find you amongst my prey. This worry never left me.’ Here, he paused again, weighing his words. ‘After…the Temple…I half expected to find you shining red. That had been the only time I was wholeheartedly glad for your golden aura.’</p><p>‘I’m not your target, Altaïr.’</p><p>A smile found its way back onto his face, his eyes ashine with an emotion Malik could hardly place.</p><p>‘In some way, <em>you are</em>, ‘he said. ‘More often than not, my whole world centers around you, like the stars that go around the sun. I think that’s why you are golden. You’re the sun. My sun.’</p><p>Malik sat there, mouth agape. He was rarely at a loss for words; had always something witty or ironic at the tip of his tongue, but here, right now, his mind was blank like a sheet of paper.</p><p>At least for a moment.</p><p>‘For someone gifting dead chicken as reconciliation, this is the most romantic love confession possible, honestly,’ he stammered.</p><p>Altaïr’s laugh reverberated across the small room. ‘You don’t know half of it. I hadn’t even planned on it. I know I fucked up with the dead bird, that’s why I got you something different, but my mouth ran off with me, before I was able to present it to you properly…so, here you go…’</p><p>With that, he pulled something from the back of his belt to place it onto the table between them, pushing it over with his fingertips.</p><p>Malik knew that the small item could only be a book and once the silk paper fell away, he indeed held a small tome in his hands.</p><p>‘I really hope you haven’t paid Murad more than two gold coins for this.’</p><p>It was a cruel kind of fun to watch Altaïr’s mouth first open and then close again with an audible gulp.</p><p>Malik thumbed through the old volume of love poems with a content smile on his lips, before he closed it again, reaching over the table that separated them to kiss his lover deep, with hunger.</p><p>‘What I meant to say is: Thank you. That’s a vast improvement compared to the chicken.’</p><p>‘You still don’t have one romantic bone in your body...’ There should’ve been accusation in his voice, but Malik heard only fondness instead.</p><p>‘You love me nonetheless.’</p><p>‘I do. I really do. So, I take it that you’ve forgiven me for the chicken?’</p><p>Malik huffed a laugh in indignation. ‘You’ve just eaten half of it. I would say that we’re good. I’m golden, remember?’</p><p>Altaïr’s smile was as bright as the star he was named after.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>‘Yes, I remember. You have always been golden.’</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. tug war or four small words</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Angst ahead. With the happy ending we all love so much.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Malik didn’t like horses.</p><p>He wouldn’t go so far to say that he actually hated them, but he harbored a healthy distaste that only deepened due to current circumstances. The swaying gait of his mare kept unsettling his stomach and her sharp smell worsened this fact even more, but it would’ve been too easy to put the blame of his misery on the horse alone.</p><p>Sweat glued his robes to his skin and Malik shivered despite the sun glaring down on them. He tried in vain to keep his mind occupied with his dislike for horses that it wouldn’t notice the downward spiral his body fell into more and more, so he repeated his mantra to tune out the fire that ran down his left arm.</p><p>The left arm his body was convinced had still to be there, but wasn’t, just <em>wasn’t</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Horses were stupid.</p><p>They lacked independence.</p><p>Everything scared them.</p><p><em>REPEAT</em>.</p><p> </p><p>His hand clawed into the reins as another wave raced from the center of his chest to radiate towards his maimed arm, where it settled like burning coals, scorching what was left of the scarred flesh there. He breathed through his nose, prolonging each exhale to regain control, but he was burning from within with no escape. It should be so simple, so ordinary, to tell his body that this part of him was gone, his arm cut from him by force – yet it wasn’t. Malik knew from past experiences that this won’t do the trick, for it wasn’t a matter to be solved by rational thought: from time to time his body would turn deaf to what his mind had to say and rebelled to be whole again even if it meant to convulse in pain. Maybe a demon had possessed him and ushered him into bouts of agony out of malice, claiming his body where his mind refused to follow, or vice versa. In the end, only his stubbornness remained as his personal last line of defense, with a world fraying at its seams.</p><p> </p><p>Horses were smelly.</p><p>Too pricey.</p><p>And they were attracting flies.</p><p><em>REPEAT</em>.</p><p> </p><p>‘You are in pain.’</p><p>Four small words sliced through his carefully erected fortification and allowed his mind entrance to the fire his body already burned with. A shudder ran through him from head to toes and Malik had to fight to stay on horseback for a moment, pinching his eyes closed to keep some semblance of focus. The clapping of hooves coming closer only reached him distantly, but a hand had reached for his reins when he opened his eyes again, halting his horse’s steps.</p><p>‘Malik, what’s wrong?!’</p><p>Again, four small words he had no answer for. To the outward eye, everything had to be fine: he had long recovered from his wounds, was in fine health and his mood had progressed immensely once Altaïr had wormed his way back into his heart. Sadly, his body decided to plunge him into agony out of the blue at the most ill-fitting occasions.</p><p>Altaïr’s gaze was full of worry, yet Malik still clung to the last remnants of his deflecting strategy to keep his mind busy and his body disconnected to a certain degree even if the fire ate away at what was left of his arm and beyond everything physically possible. Gnashing his teeth, he summoned the circles that upheld his focus. Answering his lover just wasn’t an option right now.</p><p> </p><p>He really didn’t like horses.</p><p>But Altaïr loved them.</p><p>Altaïr was at home on horseback.</p><p><em>REPEAT</em>.</p><p> </p><p>‘Malik?!’</p><p>He was shaking by now, his mind no longer at ease with the little games that ran in loops to no avail and with his consciousness alert to the heat scorching his left side, the pain gained a new quality, reached places that had been unattainable before. It spread like bushfire, leaving only ashes in its wake. Malik convulsed sideways, a groan already past his lips that set Altaïr into action. An arm slung over his shoulders steadied him somewhat, but the words spoken were muted - only their dire cadence reached him as a whisper, an afterthought. Malik was no stranger to torture and resistance and maybe it was due this little fact that he was able to hold his eyes open this time.</p><p>Faintly, a sliver of greenish blue glimmered on the horizon, not unlike the illusions that flickered upon hot desert sands to the east, luring the lost into doom and death. Chances were high that it was one of those phantoms - just like the pain in a limb that wasn’t there anymore, but Malik clung to the hope that it wasn’t. Sure, his fire was an illusion of a different variety, but all the same on a very fundamental level. To his strained mind, what hovered on the horizon looked like salvation, though. He kicked his horse into motion, uncaring of Altaïr’s worried shouts, the mare falling into gallop easily.</p><p>The burning in his lost limb followed his mad race all the same, as his mind screamed for it all to find an end, no matter how.</p><p>To his delight, the blue grew and grew until he was swallowed by it.</p><p>He startled when water splashed all around him, cascading down his body, soaking his robes. It was sheer luck that he untangled from reins and saddle to come up in murky water with his horse already halfway back to the bank. The water pulled at his clothes, but its coolness did wonders to the agony that had held him in its chokehold until then and Malik took in the first deep breath in ages even if he swallowed water along with air. It didn’t matter though for they both extinguished the fire within him with each drag and gulp.</p><p>The pull to the back of his hood came suddenly, unbidden: A sharp tug that changed his flow, urging him back to where he came from and for a moment Malik resisted with all that he’d got. He kicked and curled, but the hold on him only intensified. Only once he was able to take in the words that were screamed at him did he relent slowly as each syllable made it to his muddled mind in bits and pieces.</p><p>‘I beg you, Malik! Come to your senses!’</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>Altaïr</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Fear in his voice.</p><p>Panic in his grip.</p><p>Four small words, and, again, four small words.</p><p> </p><p>No repeat.</p><p> </p><p>Malik’s feet met half-solid ground and he stood while arms circled his torso, still dragging him on towards the riverbank through wads of reed. He staggered along while his mind was finally able to take in the situation in little scenes that formed a whole in the end, like puzzle pieces that lined up to paint a picture that actually made sense:</p><p>Jordan River flowed around their hips and he could see their mounts grazing at its banks not far from them. Altaïr still held him in an iron grip as if he would loosen his hold, he would slip away irretrievably. The pain in his maimed arm was still there, but bearable, no longer a fire that threatened to burn him alive. The body that pressed close to him shivered in strain.</p><p>When Altaïr stumbled, he fell too, coming to sprawl in the murky water, soaked to the bone with his clothes heavy and cold. Still, the other’s hand clawed into his robes as if his life depended on it. Then, another thought made it to the forefront of his mind and he turned to finally look at the man beside him.</p><p> </p><p>Altaïr was white as a sheet, shaking.</p><p>For as much as he loved horses, he hated water.</p><p>Feared it like nothing else.</p><p> </p><p>‘I’m sorry. It hurt so much, I…I lost control.’</p><p>His own voice sounded strange, distant, as if it didn’t really belong to him at all, but at the same time, he reached out towards the other, pulling him in with the same power he was held with and that game of tug war should’ve been at least awkward, but it wasn’t: like that they anchored each other in a reality that would’ve been too scary otherwise. Altaïr was shaking in small tremors and now that he noticed that fact on the other, he became aware that he was trembling pretty much the same.</p><p>‘Water. It helps you.’ Altaïr sounded as strained as he looked, his lips a thin, tight line. ‘Against the pain.’</p><p>Malik was only able to muster a curt nod, and attempted to scramble to his feet again, but Altaïr remained sitting, immovable. No insistent tug was able to get the message through.</p><p>‘If it makes you feel better, we can stay,’ Altaïr said, ignoring the repeated pulls with feigned nonchalance.</p><p>A familiar exasperation was welling up in Malik when the meaning of that sentence sank in.</p><p>‘You hate water. Let’s get out of here.’</p><p>To his silent amazement, Altaïr didn’t move an inch, only glared up at him with his hand still entangled in his wet robe, his eyes golden in the desert sun. Another tug war. What a bonehead, Malik thought. He could be scared out of his own skin, yet he didn’t give in.</p><p>‘You are as stubborn as a mule,’ Malik said with an intended edge that got smoothed over by honest affection.</p><p>‘I beg to differ. I’m no mule. I’m a stubborn racing horse.’</p><p>Malik exhaled through his nose and let himself fall next to the other, plashing water everywhere.</p><p>‘I don’t like horses.’</p><p>A boyish smile flitted across Altaïr’s face, lop-sided and utterly charming despite the tension that still lingered in his set shoulders.</p><p>‘But you like me.’</p><p>‘Luckily for you, I do,’ Malik said and after a moment of thought, he added, ‘There aren’t that many people following me into the waters, well-knowing they can’t swim. That was quite a feat.’</p><p>‘That’s your way of saying <em>‘Thank you’, </em>isn’t it?’</p><p>‘Probably.’</p><p>Malik really hoped his own smile mirrored Altaïr’s somehow. They were both completely out their comfort zone, yet, at the same time, they slipped back into their familiar banter as if to shoo away all that burdened them.</p><p>Maybe it all boiled down to the simple fact that for as long as they got each other’s backs, there was nothing to be feared at all.</p><p>No pain.</p><p>No waters.</p><p>They were in their tug war for life with no intent to lose their hold on each other.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="http://blood-and-pepper.tumblr.com/">uhm, hello</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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